


Just a Perfect Day

by Experimental



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Canon Timeline, Developing Friendships, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Mentions of War & Death, Mobile Suits & Gundams, Slice of Life, Walks In The Park, Walks On The Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: Quatre has a plan for their layover in San Francisco: a worry-free day in Golden Gate Park. It might be the last one they have together. It might be the first Trowa doesn't wish he could forget.
Relationships: Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Bringin' Gundam Wing Back





	Just a Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during episode 7. Inspired by [this classic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wxI4KK9ZYo), and many many years overdue.

“You tracked me down.”

If Trowa's honest, he's a little impressed. And a little annoyed. Mostly at himself, for underestimating Quatre Winner, even after their last run-in and the time they should have spent studying one another. If Trowa had been a better student, he might have been better prepared for this.

“I just had to put myself in your shoes. It wasn't too hard. After all, we came in on the same ferry, have to hide ourselves in the same town—”

“We're not the same.”

Quatre stills. His smile wavers but defiantly holds on.

Maybe Trowa was too snappish. But he looks at this slight boy in front of him, obviously colony-born and -bred, spoiled, and too trusting for his own good, and something rebels inside him. Maybe it's knowing he let his guard down for some smug rich kid, treating Operation M like it's some kind of game. Trowa's slipping. He needs to be more careful going forward.

“What do you want? And don't say to join forces.”

“I thought we might spend some time together, like we did before,” Quatre says, again in that familiar tone of voice like he's known Trowa his whole life. “Since we have a whole day to kill before we need to head out to our next assignment.”

“You're assuming our assignments are the same.”

“There's only one way to find out for sure, isn't there? I don't believe it's coincidence we keep running into each other.”

“Twice,” Trowa reminds him. “We've crossed paths twice now. And only once on a mission. You don't know we're heading to the same place.”

“But aren't we?”

It would be so easy to drop the name of a base, find out, but to do so goes against all Trowa's training, his instincts. Even if his gut tells him he can trust Quatre. Trusting someone doesn't mean they can't stab you in the back later, intentionally or not.

“I recognized you,” Trowa says, as if that should make his position clear. “Before you offered your name. Scion of the Winner family who effectively rules L4, heir to the Winner Corporation and all its resources. Anyone with a connection to the Net could figure that out if they saw your face.”

“I'm careful,” Quatre insists, drawing himself up to his full height. But even he doesn't sound like he entirely believes that.

“Names don't mean much to me, but yours happens to be quite valuable. I bet your father would pay handsomely for your return. I could kidnap you right now for a nice ransom. Or reward, whichever the case may be.”

“You could _try_. It wouldn't be the first time someone has _tried_.”

So. He won't frighten Quatre away that easily.

Trowa has no interest in ransoms or rewards, however. Not with a mission to complete. Maybe after. _If_ he's still alive.

“What I can't figure out is why someone as comfortable as you would do something as stupid as stealing a gundam. Unless you're just better than most at hiding your death wish.”

That manages to get a small laugh out of Quatre. “Who said I stole Sandrock?”

Trowa opens his mouth to respond, then realizes his mistake. He can't answer without revealing something about himself and Operation M—or rather, his deviation from it—and that's something that could be used against him later. Now who's not being careful?

But it seems Quatre understands anyway. “Right. I forgot. We're not the same.”

Then, Trowa can't refuse his offer. He can't afford to. Not until he knows what Quatre Winner—no, what Pilot 04 knows.

“What was the plan for today?”

“Would it be too cliché to have a picnic in the park?”

* * *

Quatre pays their cab fare to Golden Gate Park, and though the driver seems not to recognize him, it strikes Trowa as reckless.

He's not afraid he'll be recognized himself. The Barton Foundation wouldn't know one mobile suit mechanic in their employ from another, and even if they did, he was smart enough to cover his tracks.

But someone of Quatre's name and upbringing could easily be taken advantage of. If anyone connected sightings of Quatre on Earth to the gundams' attacks, the political blowback for his father could upset the situation in the colonies enough to throw a wrench in their respective handlers' grander scheme—not that Trowa knows or needs to know what that is.

That, however, appears to be the least of Quatre's concerns. The war feels a million miles away on a fair May day, in the middle of a park, in the middle of a city still at peace.

Trees in bloom perfume the air of the Music Concourse as a string quartet busk in the neo-classical ruins of some long-bygone world's fair. They stop to watch a song, and out of the corner of his eye Trowa catches the fingers on Quatre's left hand moving in time at his side, following along with the melody on the strings of an invisible violin.

Trowa thinks back to their impromptu duet, and something begins to uncoil in the pit of his stomach. That spontaneous an act of creation between two people is the sort of thing that rarely happens twice, if one's lucky enough to ever experience it at all. For that reason, Trowa feels sometimes as though he must have dreamt the whole thing.

He checks their six regularly. Behind them, a sabre-toothed cat is frozen in eternal battle with a serpent at the apex of a fountain. No one else seems to notice it. But Trowa feels more akin to that statue than anything else in this manufactured paradise. He just isn't sure if he's the cat, or the snake.

They tour the botanical gardens, and the Japanese tea garden. Quatre pays their entry fees each time.

“I made some withdrawals before Father could freeze my accounts,” he says, as if that alone should allay any obligation to repay him Trowa might feel.

Accounts. Plural. Trowa has one, and it's barely legal. Definitely not insured. No checks, no plastic. You have to have a name for those. Preferably not a dead man's.

What he has is freelance work with a traveling circus, and a stipend Doktor S wires him, which only just covers food, gas, ammunition for Heavyarms and the bribes that come with it; it seems too risky to ask for more. It isn't the most stable source of income someone in Trowa's position could have. Maybe he would look into opening a real savings account for himself if he expected to live long enough to enjoy it.

“Between that and the Maguanacs' safe houses, I should have enough to live on comfortably, if this operation ends up lasting more than a couple months.”

Quatre keeps talking like Operation M is a roundtrip. If Trowa hangs around him long enough, will he catch the delusion too?

Under the shade of manicured maples and pine trees that surround the tea house, tourists sip drinks or wander around a calming stream, where koi occasionally flash golden under a lance of unfiltered sunlight. With any luck Trowa and Quatre look like a couple of tourists themselves, or even a couple of high-schoolers on a date—a couple no one would give more than a passing glance.

Quatre takes it on himself to fill the silence, recounting to Trowa all the other times he's been to Earth, and how beautiful he always found it. “Granted, these were business trips for my father and he didn't want me wandering far, so just about all I knew of Earth until a month ago were its cities and ports and mining operations.”

But he seems to have a lot to say about those places: historical architecture, museums and music halls, local specialties and outdoor markets. Wildlife—or what passes for it in the middle of a big city or a work site. To Quatre's credit, none of it sounds remotely confidential; Trowa's sure every story can be backed up by the society pages. He lets the information flow through him, filing away anything that might need to be retrieved later while paying only the barest attention.

At some point, however, Quatre runs out of stories, and a good half a minute of silence passes before Trowa realizes he's stopped talking. “Is that it?”

“I think I've commandeered the conversation long enough,” Quatre says, smiling over his tea. “What are you thinking?”

“That there are too few exits out of this place,” Trowa says without missing a beat. “On the one hand, that means anyone who might have followed us here will have to enter through the admission gate.” And Trowa has a prime view of that over Quatre's left shoulder. “But if we need to leave in a hurry, we might have to make our own exit. Lucky for us, the landscaping provides plenty of places to hide— What?” he says to Quatre's chuckle, narrowing his eyes.

“Just that it's no wonder Rashid likes you. Great minds think alike!”

“I wasn't making a joke. We need to consider these things.”

“I know, I know. It's just—I brought you here so you could enjoy some peace and quiet, Trowa! The rustle of the breeze through the leaves,” Quatre says with cup raised, as if toasting the garden itself, “the birdsong, the smell of flowers in bloom. . . . You really going to tell me none of that has any effect on you?”

“You want me to believe you're being careful, but then you sit with your back to the entrance.”

Quatre sobers, looks away.

But Trowa didn't say anything that was incorrect.

“It is beautiful here,” he finds himself amending, not that he needed to apologize. Or that he needs to feel whatever it is the garden makes Quatre feel to know that's true. “But it's hardly what I'd call nature. We're still in the middle of a city. All this was planned, just like green spaces in the colonies.”

“It's natural enough. It's enough to know that under all this dirt, there's bedrock, not steel plating. Some of these trees are hundreds of years old. That makes them even older than the colonies. Anyway, you can't grow redwoods and cypress and eucalyptus in space. Not without diverting precious water away from people who need it.”

“Believe me. Real nature is nothing to write home about. It's messy, and if you're in a mobile suit it only gets in your way. You've seen one tree, you've seen them all.”

“It sounds like there's a story there.”

“I wouldn't want to bore you,” Trowa says.

And then wonders why his first instinct was to evade. Not to protect anyone in his past. Those who aren't already dead don't need his protection.

But he catches a whiff of pine under the wisterias when the breeze changes direction and has no intention of letting memories he thought he'd buried come rising to the surface, just to satisfy Quatre Winner's curiosity.

Thankfully, Quatre doesn't pry further, just watches the people around them and finishes his tea.

* * *

They get ice cream from one of the many food trucks around the park and eat on their feet, taking in the sights along the way: the lakes with their ducks and paddle boats and sunbathing turtles, the ferny grottos, the roses and vast green meadows. All this open space an unimaginable luxury for a colony kid, but the locals take it in stride. Every jogger or dog-walker they pass reminds Trowa of the pistol tucked into his waistband, but he never sees the same face go by twice.

Further west, there's a paddock with a herd of live bison that Quatre's excited to see. They aren't what Trowa would call wild either, their pasture bordered by a high chainlink fence on all sides. But that hardly seems to matter to Quatre.

He leans on the railing of the observation deck, rapt, as the animals graze below them, telling Trowa, “Did you know there used to be tens of millions of bison ranging all over this continent? Before the railroads were laid down and there was a concerted effort to exterminate them.”

Curly-headed calves frolic together, until the younger ones grow tired and slink back to their mothers for a drink of milk, while the elders lounge in the shade of oaks and watch the humans who watch them.

“They claimed the bison were a nuisance. Can you believe that? Such peaceful creatures that never wished harm on anyone, a nuisance, deserving of extinction.”

But Trowa can believe it, all too easily. It's human nature to kill what can't be used or brought to heel. He learned that lesson early.

“I wish I could have seen the bison in their heyday,” Quatre says, his voice an almost reverential whisper. “When you see them like this, you really get a sense of how delicate Earth and its ecosystems are. We think of the colonies as vulnerable—and with good reason. The impact of something as small as a derelict telecom satellite can have real life-or-death consequences for the people inside. But even a population of millions can be wiped from the face of the Earth in the blink of an eye.”

He's no longer talking about bison and railroad men from centuries ago. He's talking about Operation M. The real Operation M; not what they're doing. It wouldn't make any difference for Trowa to agree, so he says nothing.

But it feels like they're both on the brink, of saying something that might give themselves away. Maybe there's a part of Trowa, deep down, that cares the same way Quatre does. He can't say for sure, but he doesn't want to see these bison go the way of the dinosaurs either.

“Life is the most precious thing in the universe, Trowa. I'm sure you think I'm naïve for saying this, but I honestly can't understand why anyone would want to destroy it.”

And yet that is what they're doing, every time they blow up a mobile suit with the pilot still inside. Trowa knows how he justifies his actions. He can't say the same for Quatre.

“Maybe they aren't thinking,” Trowa says, “that's the problem. People who are just trying to survive aren't motivated to think past their own lives.”

“I guess I hadn't thought of it that way,” Quatre says after a beat, and falls quiet.

But that's a terrible place to leave it. It seems to Trowa like Quatre should put up more of a fight, if he really feels life is that precious and worth fighting for.

Perhaps by way of apology, Trowa adds, “I can't say the same for those who only want revenge, though.”

A family with small children enters the observation area then, a child of four or five running excitedly up to the railing while the parents follow with baby brother or sister in a stroller. Quatre moves out of their way, standing on the other side of Trowa. Neither of them dares to say anything while the family is within earshot, though Quatre does return the mother's smile warmly when she looks his way.

“Do you think they have any idea what we've saved them from?” he says to their backs once he and Trowa are alone again.

“With any luck they never will. You know what would happen if word got out. This war would never end.”

Then there would always be a need for Trowa, a role for him and people like him to fill. A sobering thought.

Though less sobering than the hellscape of shattered infrastructure and human desperation his predecessor was supposed to conquer. Is it too much to hope he's seen the back of days like those forever?

“There's always diplomacy.”

“If you really believed diplomacy was still an option, you wouldn't have stolen a gundam and brought it to Earth.”

Then it's Quatre's turn to bite his tongue, with nothing to say in his own defense.

* * *

“I think you ought to know I did my homework on you, too. And even if I still have no idea who you really are, at least I know who you're not.”

They wandered onto an archery range as they continued to follow the sun, and, deciding to try their hands at a bit of one-up-manship, rented some equipment for an hour.

Trowa's just glad he didn't put any money on himself. He hadn't taken Quatre for athletic, but after a brief warmup—getting used to the gravity, Quatre called it—Quatre has scored almost as many bullseyes as Trowa.

Though he wouldn't beat Catherine Bloom with her knives. And, to be fair, archery is an aristocratic sport.

“You're not the son of Dekim Barton, that's for sure,” Quatre says as he nocks another arrow. “You're the wrong age, build, personality—and there's not a plastic surgeon in the Earth Sphere who's _that_ good.”

He draws back, aims and lets fly, all in one fluid motion. The arrow embeds itself right next to its predecessor within the centermost ring. For a split second, as Quatre admires the shot, Trowa can picture him in the garb of his Earthly ancestors on some desert range, surrounded by his trusty Maguanacs and hunting falcons.

Then Quatre turns to him, and the distant towers and steel-and-glass pyramids of the San Francisco skyline reappear over the trees behind his head.

“Publicly, the Barton Foundation doesn't want to say anything that might arouse the Alliance's suspicion, but according to back channels the real Trowa's been missing for weeks, and no one seems to have any idea where he might have gone. Or what might have happened to him. At least, no one who's telling.”

Trowa can tell when he's being baited. “Back channels, huh,” is all he'll say, with the slightest cock of a brow.

But Quatre's playing it just as close to the chest. “You have your sources, I have mine. It makes me wonder, though.”

“If our 'sources' are connected?”

“That too. But if you're not the real Trowa Barton, just who are you?”

Of course. That would be the foremost question on Quatre's mind. He's just going to have to get used to disappointment. “I wasn't lying when I said I don't have a name.”

“I'm not asking about names.”

“I'm nobody,” Trowa offers. That, at least, is the truth. “That's all you need to know.”

“You must have been _somebody_ , before all this. Nobody's nobody.”

“ _I_ am.”

Trowa plans to leave it at that. He shoots another arrow, hitting his mark beautifully, with a satisfying _thup._

But he can feel Quatre's eyes on _him_ the whole time and not the target, waiting for more information to come, and somehow the silence draws it out of Trowa. Like poison from a wound.

“I don't have a name or a history. I don't remember my family, I don't know if they're even still alive. The earliest memories I have are of mobile suits, and recruiting child soldiers is illegal under all conventions. The mercs I ran with didn't keep those kinds of records, so I have no idea where they found me. Officially, I don't exist.

“And before you start asking yourself how you might use this information against me,” Trowa adds before Quatre can respond, “I can tell you right now it won't work. Because it makes me feel nothing.”

He nocks another arrow, and steels himself for the pity that usually comes next.

This time, however, it doesn't.

“I guess that makes you perfect for this mission, then, doesn't it?” Quatre says instead. “No family to be disappointed in you if you die. None of the guilt knowing that, if you do survive, what you're doing hurts them and eventually you'll have to face the consequences they've suffered for your actions. Frankly, I'm a little jealous.”

“There's nothing about my life worth envying. It's not even a life, really.”

WTD, the mercenaries used to call soldiers like him. The ones who'd shut off their own emotions and morality for so long they could barely be said to be human anymore. Waiting to die. That's all they were. Dead men walking. Dead men killing.

“It's no different than being a weapon. Someone else aims you, someone else pulls the trigger. You do the actual killing but you don't really get a say in the matter. Repeat ad infinitum—until someone either kills you or your services are no longer required.”

No one could want that. No one in their right mind _should_ want that.

Even Trowa can't say what he does or doesn't want. It's only recently he's started to remember what it feels like to have a choice. If it's even remembering, and not learning for the first time.

“That's such a sad way to live,” Quatre mutters, as much to himself as to Trowa. “But it would make things easier. If I could just do what needed to be done, and didn't have to feel.”

“You don't mean that. A gun doesn't feel remorse for the people it kills. You don't want to be a gun.”

“No. No, I suppose I don't.”

But Trowa can hear the “but” in that sentence. _But it would still make things easier._ As easy as shooting an arrow to a target.

Maybe. Maybe it would.

But if what they're doing ever feels easy, maybe that's a clue they're doing it wrong.

* * *

There's a restaurant at the western edge of the park, just across the road from the beach and the sea. An old Spanish colonial revival, a relic from another time. It might as well be a restaurant at the edge of the world.

Over mocktails and small plates, they watch the cormorants wheel black against the late-afternoon sky, and talk—or rather, Quatre does—about Zayeed Winner. No classified information, nothing that could compromise anyone but Quatre, just what it's like growing up in that man's long shadow. It's as if he feels he owes Trowa something for his honesty earlier. A past for a past.

“So, it's noblesse oblige after all,” Trowa says. “The reason you chose to fight.”

Quatre stirs his drink, thinking hard before he answers.

“I don't know if I'd call it that precisely. I can't really say it's my duty as a Winner, can I? If you knew my father, you'd understand that what I did amounts to a very real act of rebellion. If not treason, against his policy of total pacifism.”

“That's interesting. Because every time the Alliance gets a little nervous, the demand for neo-titanium skyrockets. It seems to me your colony's economy benefits directly from mobile suit warfare. ”

Quatre winces. “Don't let my father hear you say that. I've never known him to throw a punch, but there's a first time for everything.”

But amusement flickers briefly over his features at the thought. Maybe there's more of a rebellious streak in him than he cares to admit.

“I didn't take Sandrock to prove something to my father or to spite him,” Quatre starts over to the view out the window. As if hoping to catch a glimpse of the L4 cluster twinkling somewhere past those cormorants and the sinking sun.

Or, perhaps, to reassure himself that if he can't see L4, it can't see him either. “This isn't about him. Once I knew the truth about Operation M, I couldn't sit by and let it happen. I'd never forgive myself if I knew millions—maybe even billions of people were going to die and I did nothing to try and stop it.”

“Tens of thousands still might,” Trowa says, “because of the choices we've already made.”

Maybe he should have kept that thought to himself. He can see on Quatre's brow how it pains him.

“That's a much smaller number, though. I can accept it. I have to believe that as long as people like us are on the frontlines of this operation, there's a chance, even if it is a small one, of stopping this war in its tracks. That's worth giving my life for, if it should come to that.”

Trowa doesn't know what to say. Either to Quatre's optimism or his unwavering certainty that Trowa is acting just as much out of conscience as he is, and that he's not just doing this because he couldn't stand to see Heavyarms being used to perpetrate the mass murder and subjugation of civilians.

One way or another, Trowa thinks, this next mission will decide whether Quatre's hope for a political miracle is realistic. No amount of postulating will make an ounce of difference.

“Listen to us,” Quatre says with a grim laugh. “I invited you out with me today so we could get our minds off depressing things, and we've talked of nothing but.”

“True. But what else would we have talked about?”

Quatre smiles to himself. Perhaps thinking, as Trowa is, that gundams and musical talents aside, it's not as though they have much in common.

“I've enjoyed myself,” Trowa says with a shrug. Even if he only says it to put Quatre's conscience at ease, it's not a lie. Trowa can probably count the number of times he's actually had fun on one hand, and today makes twice with Quatre Winner.

“Well, then. Mission accomplished.”

As afternoon slips into evening, the restaurant fills up until it's too crowded for either's liking. In any case, Quatre's been wanting to dip his feet in the ocean since long before he made his trip to Earth. They hurry and finish their virgin sangrias. Quatre pays the bill.

When they get down to the beach, they have it nearly to themselves. The surf is violent, the tide coming in. No one's foolish enough to dip their feet in that. A bank of cloud is gathering in the northwest, just off the coast. The city's famous fog sends a chilly wind to the shore to herald its arrival, long before it ever makes landfall.

“The whole bay should be socked in by midnight,” Quatre says of the fog bank as they trudge side-by-side up the beach, well out of reach of the surf.

It'll be perfect cover for moving two heavy suits. “Another night without much sleep,” Trowa agrees.

“We should call it a day. Maybe we can snag a few hours before we have to be on the road.”

Quatre says so matter-of-fact, but there's a reluctance in him that isn't as explicit. To call this day to a close. To return to the life of a gundam pilot, with the weight of the world back on his shoulders.

To stop pretending that they're just two ordinary teenagers out for a day of fun in the park.

To let go of whatever invisible force it is that's keeping Trowa tethered to his side.

But he knew when he asked this morning that it was only for a day.

Trowa watches Quatre watching the waves, holding his hair back from his face against the wind so he doesn't miss a single one. The crashing water sounds like the breath of the Earth itself, the sweetness of the sangria sticks to the back of his tongue, and Trowa starts to feel something he hasn't allowed himself to in a long time. Because every time he has, nothing good has come of it.

“What exactly do you want from me?”

Quatre looks at him then, blinking, as if surprised that, after spending the entire day with him, Trowa could still doubt his intentions.

“I don't mean today,” Trowa says to that look. “I mean, what are you hoping to get out of treating me like this? If it's an ally, you have it. If it's a more physical kind of companionship,” he might have misread the energy in that music room when they played together, but Trowa doesn't think so, “I'm open to exploring that angle if you are. But if it's something more. . . .”

Even now it's hard for Trowa to put into words. Like trying to define the vacuum of space. Something defined more by what it lacks than any other feature. As good a metaphor as any to describe what he feels where his heart should be.

“I think you should know up front that there are some things I'm just not capable of giving.”

It's hard to tell by Quatre's silence if Trowa's offended him. He sounds uncomfortable with the direction the conversation's taken when he finds his voice again.

“Well. I don't know what to say. I'm flattered but, to be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead.” Though the pink across Quatre's cheeks says, if he truly hasn't thought about the two of them before, he's certainly considering it now. “Would it be alright with you if for now I just called you a friend?”

Trowa shrugs indifferently. He isn't sure he understands what all that entails, but he's more game to follow Quatre's lead and find out than he was yesterday.

For no discernible reason, it feels as though Quatre has taken some of the pressure off him with that answer. At least now each knows where he stands.

“Of course, ask me again a month from now and maybe I'll have a different answer for you. Hell,” Quatre sobers, “ask me again after this mission. If we're both still alive.

“But I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Trowa,” he says after they've walked on a little further. “Maybe then you wouldn't sell yourself so short. You have more to give than you realize.”

Trowa wants to say he doubts that very much.

But when Quatre says that name, it feels as though it's actually his own. As though it always has been. And that doesn't feel like a bad thing. Maybe Trowa doesn't need to challenge Quatre's certainty this time. What would it hurt to let him have this one last point?

Flood lights warm to life over the parking lot up ahead, illuminating public restrooms and payphones as the sun fizzles in the marine layer.

Quatre says, “I'll call us a cab.”

But Trowa catches his wrist before he can slip away. Maybe this will prove to be a mistake, a fatal miscalculation on his part, but Trowa wants him close.

Close enough no one else could possibly overhear when he says, “New Edwards. That's where you're going, isn't it?”

For a few heartbeats, Quatre weighs how and whether to answer.

But whatever he decides, his hesitation has already told Trowa all he needs to know.

“I'm doing this alone,” Quatre throws Trowa's words back at him with a haughty grin.

“So am I,” says Trowa. “However. If we happened to run into each other on the road . . .”

“No one could blame us for teaming up.”

**Author's Note:**

> The points of interest mentioned here, just a small selection of what you can see in Golden Gate Park, are all real, starting with the Rideout Memorial Fountain and Music Concourse on the eastern side of the park, all the way west to the Beach Chalet restaurant by the ocean, whose building dates back to 1925. 
> 
> I did take some artistic license with the archery scene. The practice range exists, but you have to rent equipment off-site or bring your own. A nice way to spend an afternoon, if you ever find yourself with a gundam and some time to kill in San Francisco. . . .


End file.
